Pieced Together From Scraps
by Rosawyn
Summary: There was a game Steve and Bucky played long ago. Steve always knew his lines, but Bucky's trying to piece his back together.


**Pieced Together From Scraps**

**Warning: contains potentially triggering content.**

"You can be the king," Bucky says, sticking the uneven cardboard crown he's made onto Steve's head—it's a bit big, so it slides down his forehead and catches on his ears. "And I'll be the knight." He swings his makeshift wooden sword in a jaunty circle, smiling lopsidedly. Steve would rather be a knight than a king; they both know this. But he makes a better king. "You'll need the sword, so you can knight me." He passes Steve his sword, hilt first, and kneels. "'I dub thee...'" he prompts, but Steve cuts him off.

"I know what to say." Steve rolls his eyes. He has always been the one to read the books aloud, after all. He takes a breath and begins, "Do you, Bucky Barnes, pledge your life and loyalty to me, your king?"

Bucky grins up at him. "I do, sire."

Steve taps Bucky's shoulder with the end of the wooden sword, his solemn expression struggling to hide a grin, his serious tone fighting down a snicker. "I hereby dub thee Sir Bucky Barnes of Brooklyn." He taps Bucky's other shoulder then moves the sword in a smooth arc so it stands in the shape of a cross, point resting on the dingy pavement between his scuffed shoes. "Arise, Sir Bucky." It would be better if he made that imperious little gesture with his hand, but some things even Bucky can't coax out of Steve.

Bucky stands up, quickly brushing the worst of the dirt off his knees, and Steve presents him with the sword, held across his hands in offering like the king held the gleaming metal sword in the storybook. It's too bad they don't have a nice red cape for Steve to wear. Bucky takes the sword.

"Now you have to do what I say." Steve grins playfully at him. "Since I'm your king."

"Yeah, yeah." Bucky rests the sword on his shoulder and slings his arm around the shorter boy's neck. "I always do what you say."

Steve rolls his eyes, because they both know that's not true.

o0o

They play cards—Bucky learns from others and teaches Steve.

Maybe it would have been better if they'd played chess, since there are no knights in Poker, only Knaves—sneaky bastards who steal from their masters. But knights are still the sneakiest piece on the chessboard, so it might not have mattered.

Steve's face is far too honest for Poker.

Bucky always wins.

o0o

"You look so comfortable on you knees," Alexander Pierce says in the dimly-lit room, a disdainful smirk colouring his words. "Like you know you belong there."

The Asset doesn't respond. There is no reason to respond.

"I suppose you've had plenty of practice," Pierce muses. "No doubt Rogers trained you well."

The Asset does not flinch at the name, but the muscles in his jaw tighten momentarily. Maybe if he doesn't look up, Pierce won't notice.

Pierce is panting now, but the Asset is quiet as his lungs fight desperately for air.

"I bet you loved this, when it was him," Pierce grunts. "They say it's not so bad, when you're in love—some even crave it, regardless. If he wasn't dead, I might owe him thanks for doing half my work for me." Pierce's fingers in the Asset's hair are cruel, but the Asset stays silent, compliant. Pierce snorts, self-satisfaction twisting a sharp grin through his voice. "I really shouldn't mention him, but it's not like you'll remember this conversation."

The Asset stays silent. The Asset always remembers too much.

o0o

The Asset discovers his name: James Buchanan Barnes. It seems like he shouldn't have forgotten.

And maybe Steve Rogers telling him should have been enough, but he hadn't wanted to hear it. On the helicarrier, when Rogers fought so valiantly, the noble knight he'd always wished to be, and then surrendered. Because once the world was saved, all that remained was a true king's heart, broken by his knight's betrayal.

The knight had never meant to betray his king; he'd been told his king was dead, and there was so much he didn't remember...

But it's his face in the museum, his smiling, laughing image on the film, that finally slots it into place. He really had been Steve's after all.

Once he understands, he can't stay away. He knows where he belongs.

o0o

He kneels, and Steve says, "Bucky," because that's what Steve has always called him.

Bucky wishes he could offer something worthy of Steve, but all he's ever had was broken, rough, damaged, and pieced together from scraps. But knowing all that, Steve still _wanted_ him, still refused to give up. It feels good to be wanted, to be valued. Maybe Steve won't mind if his knight is a little selfish in this.

"Bucky, get up." Steve is confused, a little embarrassed, but Bucky obeys, because he has to do what Steve says.

"I'm yours," Bucky says, because it feels important. Maybe he should have said 'was,' but tenses are hard, and it felt right. He's forgotten parts of the script. Maybe there was an enchantment from an evil sorcerer...that sounds familiar.

"You're my friend," Steve confirms. Corrects?

"You're my king." That feels like part of the script, part he hasn't forgotten.

Steve laughs, and relief is a cape about his shoulders. "Are we playing that game again?" Steve shakes his head, his grin a glowing beacon of hope. "You always loved that game."

(After sleeping seventy years, 'We haven't played that game in a while,' would feel redundant.)

Bucky nods and tries to offer Steve a smile in return. His face feels confused, unused to the motion. "I have to do what you say."

Steve pulls him into a fierce hug, radiant smile and damp tears against his neck. "God, Bucky, you're going to be all right. You're here, you're back. Everything's going to be okay now."

If Steve says it, it must be true; Steve always knew better than Bucky did. Bucky relaxes and lets himself be led.

o0o

The first thing Steve does is feed him, for which Bucky is grateful. Food hadn't been too hard to find when he'd been alone, but this food is better, tastes better. It's surreal for things like 'taste' to matter, but Steve asks him how it tastes, so it must be important. It tastes amazing.

The second thing Steve does is tell him to shower. That's something he hadn't done while he'd been alone, something that hadn't seemed important. But Steve is clean and Steve's other things are clean, so of course he'd want his knight to be clean as well.

Steve takes his armour and gives him other clothing in its place, fabrics that are too soft and loose on his skin. But a knight who would raise his hand against his king doesn't deserve armour, so Bucky can't object.

Steve is also careful to keep weapons away from him, always with a little flash of something that might be guilt in his eyes. But Bucky knows better than to try to take a weapon that Steve isn't offering. And it might be a very long while before Steve ever offers.

o0o

It isn't long before Bucky meets Sam, another of Steve's knights. He's been loyal from the start, so he's free to question, even argue with Steve. Bucky is quiet and stays out of their way.

"He's not going to hurt me," Steve insists, exasperation bleeding from his fingertips as he moves his hands at his sides. "He's my friend." Steve is resolute. "He remembers."

Bucky feels the praise sink in and expand, warm and sweet in his chest. Maybe it isn't much, but he remembers how to be Steve's.

"Just be careful, okay?" Sam is worried, but Sam doesn't understand: Steve is only careful with others, never with himself. It's why he'd rather be a knight. It's why he has to be the king.

o0o

They play cards again, because familiar things will help. Bucky studies the cards and tries to decide if he's the Knave of Clubs or the Knave of Spades. He's not worth enough to be a diamond and is neither warm nor soft enough to be a heart.

Steve is all four kings together: deadly, grave, precious, and beautiful.

But most of all, he's the King of Hearts, sword blithely thrust into his own head.

If Bucky was a better knight, he could protect him, even from that. But Bucky is _getting_ better; both Steve and Sam agree, though Steve is more sure.

o0o

"He was bad," Bucky says one evening. They're lying curled together on Steve's bed—the bed they share to keep both of them safe as they sleep—partway through a book from after their time about a mistreated dark-haired orphan boy with a scar who discovers secrets about his past that change everything he thought was true. Steve is reading, because Steve is always the one who reads.

"Who was?" Steve's voice is soft as he closes the book on his finger to mark their place.

The other man, the one who tried to take Steve's place. "Pierce." It's a word, too, a violent one, though missing much of the roughness one might expect from violence. It's smooth and swift, the motion of a well-crafted weapon—cold, like a needle through flesh. So unlike the word Steve sometimes calls Bucky—'Buck' is violent, yes, but it's wild and rebellious, unthinking and instinctual. It's sunlight and dust and sweat. Bucky is glad of the contrast; the less he has in common with Pierce, the better.

"Yeah, he was," Steve agrees with a sigh, laying the book aside for now and tightening his arm around Bucky's shoulders—Steve never flinches at the cold, nonliving one. "He fooled a lot of people for a long time, though."

A lot of people, true, but never Bucky. The Asset had known Pierce was bad, even when he didn't know his own name. But he'd forgotten who he served, forgotten who he needed to be. "I loved you." The words slip out, like a confession. Maybe he should have said, 'love'—tenses are hard, but that felt wrong.

In the swiftest flash, Steve's fierce, adamant confidence rises like a shield in front of his startled confusion—though how could Steve not know? Except...Bucky had given him plenty of reason to doubt. "I've always loved you, Buck," Steve says, steady as a stone castle, "and I always will. Nothing could ever change that."

Bucky relaxes against Steve's side, reassured. Something changed for Bucky after he fell from that train, sometime between losing his arm and losing the fight, but Steve has always been better than Bucky. He tilts his head and presses a gentle kiss to the corner of Steve's mouth. He must have kissed Steve a hundred times before—that's what people do when they're in love. It doesn't feel like a first, just a new first.

"Okay," Steve says, exhaling. He's not angry; Bucky hasn't done anything wrong. "Okay."

o0o

The first time Sam sees Bucky kiss Steve—they're in the kitchen, making breakfast, and Bucky wraps his metal arm around Steve's waist and presses his lips to Steve's jaw, nuzzling a bit because Steve's scent is calming—he acts as though Bucky _has_ done something wrong. Or maybe as though Steve has. It isn't really clear.

"You know," Sam says, disapproval coating his words like frost, "for a guy who's primary weapon of choice is a shield, you have a pretty damn hazy grasp on the whole idea of boundaries."

Bucky gets out of their way, sits down on a wooden chair and holds his coffee before him on the table as though its vibrant smell could ward off danger.

"Look, I just don't see the harm." Steve's voice is pitched low, but Bucky can still hear it if he doesn't tune it out. "I'm not—I'm not pushing anything on him, Sam. Where's the harm of letting him do that if he wants?"

Harm? To whom? Bucky frowns and pretends it's because his coffee is too hot.

Sam folds his arms, leaning his hip against the counter. "And what do _you_ want, Steve?"

Steve's face is torn between a stony glare and a helpless gape. "I just want to help him; that's _all_ I want. Would it really be better for him if I told him to get lost?" Steve's eyes dart guiltily to Bucky, but Bucky just pretends he really can't hear them talking.

Sam holds up his hands, shakes his head. "I don't know, man." He sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. "I don't think there really _are_ any experts in what happened to him." And then Sam says the worst thing he possibly could if he's trying to convince Steve of something: "I'm more worried about _you_, Rogers."

Bucky can't help smirking, but he hides it behind his mug.

Still, he can't fault Sam for trying to protect Steve. That is their job, after all.

o0o

Sam, Bucky decides, is the Knave of Diamonds: hard, brilliant, valuable, and good at cutting.

o0o

They're alone again, so Bucky asks, "Have I done something wrong? I mean, since...I mean recently?"

"Nah, Buck." Steve pulls him close, his chest a solid wall of warmth. "You're good."

Bucky's heart sings at the approval, but he has to be sure. "You'd tell me if I—if I ever hurt you, right?"

Steve's smile is soft and filled with affection. He shakes his head. "You're not going to hurt me, Buck."

Bucky doesn't want to see the bluff flicker in Steve's eyes. But Bucky always was better at Poker.

It's simpler when it's just the two of them, but maybe Sam needs to be around more. For Steve's sake. Bucky will just have to remember not to kiss Steve unless they're alone.

That's a part of the script he must have forgotten, but he'll remember now.

o0o

It's taken a while, but Bucky may have pieced together enough of the scattered script to make a decent show.

o0o


End file.
